A game-by-game diary of my attempt to play every Nintendo game. From 8-Eyes to Zombie Nation and everything in between. Even that strange Christian game where you convert people by hitting them with fruit. Just wait. You'll see.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Animal Attack Gakuen
Next on the list is reason #482 of "Why I Trust The Japanese About As Far As I Can Comfortably Spit A Sewer Rat" Animal Attack Gakuen is a wonderful example of how the Japanese take a wonderful concept - the hot chick in a schoolgirl uniform - and twist it into something completely off the deep end. Brought to you by the wonderfully sick minds at Pony Canyon, the same group that brought us such classics as Mag Max and Lunar Pool. I've never heard of either of them, but I'm sure I'll have the misfortune of running across them eventually. I'm not going to check them out now, since I don't hate myself nearly as much as everyone else hates me.
This game is kind of like circus peanuts candy. For those who don't know, circus peanuts were created because of focus groups. They did a study and found out that people like bananas, and peanuts and the color orange. So they whipped together orange banana-flavored marshmallows and shaped them like peanuts. The public went, "Holy fuck that's a sick idea." But they're still around, so what do I know. Anyway, back to my point. This game takes several popular Japanese fetishes and kind of throws them all in a blender. You have: Flying Schoolgirls in Short Fluttering Skirts! Killer Flying Kangaroos: And my personal favorite - Gun Toting Koala: You know, this have inspired me. I'm going to develop my own game involving some of my favourite things. You'll play Random Wenie Goth Kid who can breathe fire. You have to go face to face with Senator Joseph McCarthy's head as he spits lethal cartoon skunks at you. This all happens on the moon. Also, there are Daleks. It'll look an awful lot like this: Yeah. That's what I'm talking about.
Location: Terminus (Where All Rail Service Ends, Brother), Georgia, United States
I'm 27, a self-made oil, rail and steel tycoon whose combined income makes Bill Gates cry like a little bitch. I look like Johnny Depp, Christian Slater, or Brad Pitt, depending on which chatroom I'm in. I have a 19" prehensile penis that I use to hold my coffee while I type. I know where Jimmy Hoffa lives, and I understand the language of cats. I help old ladies cross the street and translate ethnic slurs for cuban refugees in my spare time. I sleep only one hour a night. I make ice cubes with the power of my mind. I can touch MC Hammer. I know every rivet in the Russian T-34 tank. I've advised Presidents, slept with movie stars, and can organize my sock drawer in less than 23 seconds.
And I still have time to do this blog.
1 Comments:
For every mention of alcohol...take a drink.
For every mention of self-inflicted damage...take a drink.
For every movie reference...take a drink.
For every movie reference where the name of the movie isn't explicitly mentioned...take two drinks.
For every mention of masturbation, explicit or implied...take two drinks.
Get carted to the hospital for alcohol poisoning before reading a month's worth of entries.
Bullet
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